


Komorebi

by eldvarpa



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Rebirth, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:41:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28226328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldvarpa/pseuds/eldvarpa
Summary: After arriving to Himring from Gondolin, Eärendil has plenty to learn.(Takes place in the same verse asShadan, but should make sense on its own.)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	Komorebi

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a comment the amazing [elwinfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinfortuna) left on _Shadan_ (thank you!)
> 
> (The canonical chronology might be a bit messed-up, but it's an AU.)

Elwing grabs Eärendil's hand, looks left and right, and when she's sure none of the attendants can see them darts down a dimly lit hallway. 

“Come, I'll show you something the brothers surely don't want you to see,” she says.

Eärendil tries to tug back and stop, but Elwing marches on.

“There's nothing to be afraid of. We'll just have to be very careful so they don't find out.”

Eärendil isn't very reassured by her words. His big blue eyes look twice as big as he stares at her. They look as big as when he had just arrived from Gondolin, a few days earlier, after being attacked by orcs and after Maeglin attempted to kidnap him. Elwing had been marginally luckier in that she had only vaguely heard the battle, in Doriath, the screams and the clash of metal muffled by several closed doors and her nannies singing songs to keep her and her brothers calm. She had been lucky that, even when the Fëanorians took her away, her mother told her she was to move to a new place with friends who were going to keep her safe.

Celegorm had indeed been a friend to her, before he told her the truth. 

“I've done this countless times, and they've only caught me once, come on,” she says, trying to push the thought of Celegorm as a quasi-father-figure out of her mind. 

_Once_ isn't exactly correct, but Eärendil doesn't need to know that what she means is the one time she had suffered unpleasant consequences for sneaking into this particular room was when the twins found her there. She suppresses a shudder at the memory. 

“Disobedience is our right.”

She smiles.

Eärendil still looks like he'd rather keep exploring the bits of the fortress Elwing is supposed to be showing him, but he also blushes and smiles back and lets her drag him down dim hallway after dim hallway.

Himring is a bit of a maze. Probably not as much of a maze as Menegroth, of course, though Elwing doesn't remember much of her true home. She had fun exploring Himring as a naïve child at any rate.

At last she stops in front of a tall, wide door – taller and wider than doors normally are in the fortress. She lets go of Eärendil's hand. She grips the large handle with both hands and slowly but steadily pulls it down until the door opens with the softest click. 

Eärendil looks around anxiously as if the sound were ten times as loud.

Elwing grabs his sleeve and propels him into the room, closing the door behind her. 

Pure white light greets them.

Eärendil's gaze is drawn upward, to the chiselled ceiling, and for a while he only gapes at the light.

Elwing lets him.

Seeing the Silmaril always make her think of her own father, of the fact that he chose to fight and die for that light. Probably that's why she likes coming to this room. 

She is just a little bit closer to him here, next to the Silmaril he held.

It's ironic, of course, given that this is the room where the kinslayers arranged their shed body parts into the vague shape of an elf and put the Silmaril on top of the grotesque assemblage in hopes that their father might be reborn from them. 

Such a ridiculous idea.

Curufin's idea, naturally.

“Look down,” Elwing says when some time has gone by and Eärendil is still transfixed by the light. 

Eärendil does as told and his lips promptly peel back in disgust.

Elwing grins with satisfaction. “It's ugly isn't it?”

“What on earth –” Eärendil's forehead creases as he recognises the shape of Maedhros's right arm with his eight-fingered hand, and he recognises Maglor's chest mouth, tightly shut.

“Well, these are the body parts from which the kinslayers started turning into the monsters they are, which is to say that their monster nature revealed itself in their physical shape too. At some point these parts started drying up and fell off, sort of like snakes shed their skin, I guess. The kinslayers think their father can be reborn from them.”

“That...doesn't make sense.”

Elwing shrugs.

Eärendil's repulsed gaze fixes on the left arm. 

“That is Caranthir's centipede arm,” Elwing says. “Though I guess the legs on it might remind of a spider's legs more.”

The arm is longer than a normal arm, large and black, sheeny like raven feathers. It ends with three long fingers that point in the direction elven fingers are supposed to point.

“Caranthir is?”

“The middle brother, the one they call the Dark. Your mother hasn't told you anything about her father's cousins?” 

“Very little.” Eärendil hesitates. “...She doesn't like talking about them, I think.”

“Understandable,” Elwing agrees. “Well, then you can get acquainted with them here. The actual arm on Caranthir is always moving,” she continues, quickly stretching and bending her own fingers. “The sound of it is worse than the sight though, believe me.”

“How?”

“The constant click-clack-click-clack creaking scraping sound. The centipede legs are always weaving or spinning, even when he's asleep. The worst is when you're walking down a hallway and you suddenly hear it behind you, creeping towards you.”

The fact that his left arm is so gross is something of a pity, because Caranthir is actually fun to talk to, mostly because he's very easy to rile up and quarrels with her like a child.

“And the rest of him?”

“Oh that's not _too_ bad. He has the odd outgrowth here and there and sheets of bark for skin, like Maglor and Maedhros. His head is a bit too long and he has completely black eyes.” She bends her thumbs and index fingers to show Earendil their approximate shape and size. “There is a bit of white in them, but it's always moving around. It reminds me of onyx.” Elwing actually likes gems – which is not too surprising, all things considered. “The head here is Curufin's head, the fifth brother, the one who is supposed to look like his father the most.”

“It looks a bit like a horned lizard's head?”

“Sort of. Except the face is a normal face, and the bigger horns which grow out of the top of his head grow backwards, see? These look dull, but the scales on Curufin's horns glow like embers.”

Elwing has met Curufin countless times in this room. She finds him sitting on his heels next to the bed, still as a statue with his fingers twined together and held high, as if in prayer. He's never scolded her. He just opens one eye to acknowledge her presence, and lets her be. She has a couple of guesses as to why he does that, what he's trying to tell her. She isn't sure she likes it. That's part of the reason why she doesn't tell Eärendil about it – yet.

“You can't see it too well but the back is Celegorm's.” she points. Eärendil comes a little closer and stretches his neck to see. “He has a second set of bones growing out of his back, but they grew and fanned out, and it almost looks like he has a pair of wings made of bark on his back. He looks like an actual demon.” Elwing pauses, then adds, lowering her eyes, “he is a true demon.”

Eärendil looks at her gravely. He doesn't know her full story, but he's smart and still afraid. He guesses, so he takes her hand in his and gives it a light squeeze.

The small gesture makes Elwing's heart race. 

She can't say the brothers have treated her cruelly, but their touch is always cold.

“The chest you have surely already recognised,” she resumes.

“Yeah.” 

What Eärendil doesn't realise is that he is lucky because he hasn't yet heard Maglor yell at someone with his chest-mouth. 

When Idril kept insisting to Maedhros that she wouldn't live under the same roof as Maeglin, that she wanted Maeglin dead if she was to call Maedhros king, the teeth inside Maglor's chest started peeking through. Elwing, and most of the soldiers freshly returned from Gondolin, immediately covered their ears to lessen the effect of his voice. 

The voice that comes out of Maglor's demon chest is a voice that turns your knees to jelly, pours molten metal in your veins and scrapes the inside of your body for good measure, leaving only a burning void behind. 

Fortunately, in the end Maedhros had been the one to thunder out in Idril's face that he would make sure that Maeglin would not harm anyone anymore, but that he wouldn't allow anything to happen to Maeglin either.

Elwing shakes her head. It's just like kinslayers to harbour traitors and kidnappers.

“Let's just say Maglor's chest is...more than it looks,” she says, with a meaningful raise of her eyebrows. “Try to run if you see teeth. Multiple rows of them.”

Eärendil acknowledges the warning. “The legs look nice?” he ventures. “They match at least.”

“Well, yes, they're the twins' thing.” 

The twins' legs look like a mass of entwined roots. Instead of just bark and thorns and whatnot, they have actual twigs and green shoots growing out of their bodies and crowning their head. Elwing has seen them unravel and tangle their legs back together until they are one living tree with a single root. She has also seen them close in on her with all the menace of a stormy forest.

“They do look quite nice, compared to some of their brothers, but don't trust their pretty floral looks.”

“Maedhros's hand looks...floral, too,” Eärendil says, but the mention of Maedhros elicits a small shudder.

It is only natural, given the way Maedhros dealt with Idril. Elwing finds Maedhros the scariest, too, with Amrod and Amras being close seconds. 

Maybe it's a thing with red-headed elves – they are born to be half-devils. 

Eärendil squeezes her hand again, this time seeking reassurance. “You think he will really protect us from Maeglin?”

“That, yes,” Elwing says confidently. “He's a horrible creature, but he keeps his word. He has always let me see my family, once a year, and he's not allowed any orc into Eastern Beleriand.”

“Where is your family?”

“Down in Doriath. I'm the princess of Doriath.” Elwing is thrilled to be able to say that to someone who _will_ care. “They attacked us to get the Silmaril back, killed my father and then took me away to force my mother to...cooperate with them.”

Eärendil's eyes widen and fill with sorrow. “I'm sorr–”

“Don't you apologise to me! You may be related to them, but you don't even know them. Besides, you're half mortal, just like me.”

She pulls him closer and gives him a small kiss on his left cheek. 

Eärendil kisses her back. 

“The brothers promised they will let me go back and leave us alone, leave Beleriand I mean, once Morgoth is defeated, which I do hope will happen soon.” 

Elwing has thought about escaping, many times, but even if she and her family managed to get away from the Fëanorians, Morgoth would still be a threat. If the Fëanorians will take the brunt of orcs and dragons and balrogs while her brothers grow up safely, she can tolerate staying with them. 

“And there's the other two Silmarils.”

Eärendil nods distractedly – he must have heard about the Silmarils from his mother. 

He is staring at the jewel, then he's suddenly reaching for it.

“Don't touch!” Elwing catches his hand with her left. “They'll be here in no time if you touch the gem.”

Eärendil goes stiff in her hold. “Sorry.”

“It's okay.” Elwing slowly lets him go.

“So...well, is it the gem that caused them to transform?”

Elwing opens her mouth to reply but the door bursts open. 

Both she and Eärendil start and turn.

Maedhros strides into the room. 

“Idrilion,” he says, fixing an unreadable gaze on Eärendil. “Your mother fears for your safety.”

Before Elwing can do or say anything Maedhros has grabbed Eärendil with his eight-fingered star-hand and she has to let go of his hand. 

“You know you are not supposed to be here, Princess,” Maedhros addresses her next.

He always calls her princess. She has never called him king, and he's never asked her to either, like he demanded of Idril that she address him as High King. 

“I'm free to be wherever I want,” she replies. 

“That's my fearless darling,” Celegorm's voice rings out, like Silmaril light but in sound form. 

Wide as the door is, he has to slide in obliquely. He glides past his brother and picks her up and settles her on one huge arm.

“Let me go!” Elwing immediately demands.

He smiles at her with his freakish Silmaril-white face, with the sheets of bark-like skin covering his chin and neck and his (admittedly) beautiful canopy of antler-branches through and around which his hair cascades like rays of moonlight.

His way too bright eyes smile as well while he peels Eärendil away from Maedhros and settles him on his other arm. 

“I will handle the young ones,” he tells his brother. “You stay with Father and rest.”

Maedhros frowns at them, which makes the tendrils entwined with his hair curl down over his forehead.

Elwing pelts Celegorm's shoulder with her fists as he slides back out the door and starts down the hallway towards the outer part of the fortress.

“Don't hurt yourself, please, sweetheart.”

“You let me go, you fartface.” 

“I just need to make sure Eärendil is back with his mother safely, and you seem to enjoy being with him.”

Elwing can't help blushing. “Then tell us where she is and we can go there on our own.”

“No can do. I can't be sure you won't just run off somewhere you aren't supposed to be. Maybe we can go talk to some animals after Idril has seen you?” Celegorm turns to Eärendil. “Elwing here likes birds the best.”

Elwing hangs onto his antler-branches, just like she did as a naïve child only now she pulls with all her might. “Don't tell him things about me!”

Celegorm only grins. “Oh I see.”

“What?”

“Curvo is right.”

“About what?”

“About you two.” 

Eärendil and Elwing share a bashful look. 

Celegorm's grin becomes even more infuriating. “Curvo told us where to find you, you know, and he's keeping Telvo and Pityo busy.”

“Well, do you expect me to be grateful?”

“Oh no, my fearless darling. I just want you to be happy, and I think now you can be.”

*

Elwing and Eärendil go to the Silmaril-room first thing in the morning. 

The survivors of Gondolin have settled into their new life. No-one has ever heard or seen anything of Maeglin again, and Idril has built a village for her people inside the walls of Himring. She works with Maedhros, because she too wants (needs) to be rid of Morgoth if she wants to be free of her cousins too. 

Maedhros has also had a group of soldiers from Doriath march to the front, and Elwing was allowed to meet them while they trained and until they were stationed in the watchtowers the Fëanorians have built right in the middle of the Anfauglith.

The attack on Morgoth is shaping up, which means the brothers often aren't around to forbid her and Eärendil any sort of mischief.

Therefore, they don't take any precautions as they step into the room.

They do freeze just inside the door. 

A man sits up on the bed, holding up his mismatched arms and looking at his chest with the tightly shut mouth and the Silmaril right on top of it. His face, under its crown of horns and thorns and scales, is beautiful. Like Curufin's but with a grander air about it.

“Who are you?” the kinslayers' father asks, turning towards them.

Elwing raises her chin at him. “I'm your enemy.” 

Fëanor blinks his steel-grey, inquisitive eyes. “What?”

“I'm the daughter of the king of Doriath whom your sons slew to get the Silmaril. I've been their hostage since I was a small child.”

Fëanor looks even more confused but after a time of looking at the Silmaril on his chest says, “...so you're my granddaughter, in a way.”

“No way,” Elwing protests. “Are you out of your mind?”

But Fëanor's curiosity has already moved on to Eärendil.

“And you?”

“I am...Idril's son.”

“Idril? You mean Itarillë? My grandnephew then!” Fëanor tentatively stands up and brings him closer with his centipede arm (Caranthir's). He studies Eärendil's face, while Eärendil tries to stand as still as possible to avoid touching the legs. But the legs on Fëanor's arm move very very slowly, to some sort of rhythm. “You don't look anything like your great-grandfather.” Fëanor smiles. “Good.”

Elwing can't handle his smile. 

Curufin was right after all. All the time Curufin spent praying here has led to his wish being fulfilled. She balls her fists and shuts her mouth tight, but it's no use. 

She weeps.

“What's wrong?” Fëanor says, shifting his gaze back to her.

“What? Everything!” Elwing screams. “Your sons have you back and I will never have my father back. It's unfair!”

“...I'm sorry.” 

“It's your fault!” 

It's a lot more complicated than that, of course, but in more ways than one, it is his fault.

Fëanor looks pained. As if he's genuinely distraught to be the source of her tears, genuinely sorry for her. “Perhaps your father can be brought back too?”

“My father was mortal.”

“Mortal? A second born?”

“Yeah...more or less.”

Fëanor draws her close. Elwing looks away but doesn't resist. She lets him do, even as he very carefully wipes away her tears with the back of one of the eight claw-like fingers on his right hand (Maedhros's). Unlike his sons', his touch is warm. Not scorching or fiery, just warm, as if he could soothe. “Do you mind telling me the whole story?”

Elwing doesn't take long to decide. 

First of all, she can keep Fëanor away from his sons for a while longer. Second, she'd rather tell him her story herself than let his sons spin whatever tale to him. It won't make much actual difference, maybe, but it is important to her.

Eärendil wraps one arm around her shoulders.

She meets Fëanor's gaze again and nods to him.


End file.
